


Shine A Light

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Beltane, First Time, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 'Beltane' round of Camelot's Closet.</p><p>Arthur decides to go to bed early on Beltane rather than staying up and moping. Things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine A Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burntotears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burntotears/gifts).



> If I were anything to do with the day-to-day running or writing of _Merlin_ , there would at least have been a musical spoof episode now. As there has not been, and Merlin and Arthur haven't actually snogged on camera yet, the logical conclusion is that I'm not.
> 
> Beltane traditions more sort of loosely based on those of Tamora Pierce's awesome fantasy world Tortall than those of Earth.

It's funny. He'd thought that, when he was king, everything would be how he wanted it, everything would be perfect.

He's got a prosperous kingdom and loyal knights, he's got loyal subjects, who are apparently happy and satisfied with the job he's doing. He's got borders on all sides, no front lines at all for the first time since his father was crowned. He's got everything he ought to want.

He doesn't want this. His mead tastes like smoke, dull and heavy and heady on his palate, and he's watching his court revel in his first Beltane as king. He should be amongst them, but instead he sits by the fire and watches them at play.

The knights are amongst the serving-girls, dancing and grinning and maybe patting the odd bustle or two (but nothing further, because Arthur has proven exactly what he thinks of men who force themselves on servants, twice with swords and once with a pen and Geoffrey of Monmouth's quite vicious and very _permanent_ help), getting filthy looks from the cooks and ostlers and other low-born men, who dislike the competition.

And in the middle of it Merlin's head can be seen bobbing and swaying, he's dancing with someone, and having a good time at it. The crowd shifts and parts and Arthur recognises wild black curls and a lavender bodice - Gwen.

Arthur would love to dance with them, but doesn't want to interrupt them. They, at least, can spend Beltane together. He feels a little pang in the deep place where he keeps his fondness for Morgana, whom he still misses. She would have been here with him - oh, she would have been floating through the crowd like the perfect social hostess she was trained to be, but she would have drifted past him as often as possible and been snippy at him, and he could have been snippy back, and it would have made the occasion a lot more entertaining.

Merlin's bones stare through his skin in the firelight. Arthur knows there are flat, sleek planes of muscle under his manservant's shirt (they don't go swimming together any more because it is beneath a king's dignity to bellyflop into a river pool just to get his companion soaked so he'd be forced to go swimming as well, and just as well, because Merlin was probably starting to get suspicious of why Arthur never got out of the water until he, Merlin, was dressed and already walking off ...), but that is under his shirt - his face is raw-boned and stupidly lovely, his eyes are wide and by turns innocent and wicked, his mouth ...

This is not a seemly train of thought.

Someone plonks themselves down next to Arthur, and it is Lancelot, his new second in command, recalled from the border of Wessex where he'd been fighting as a mercenary. He nudges Arthur playfully. 'Planning on leaping a bonfire or two tonight, sire?' he asks in a sly tone of voice, but his own eyes are flicking back and forth towards and away from Gwen, and Arthur knows exactly whose embers his knight wishes to be stirring this night.

Arthur kept Gwen close after Morgana left, despite her not properly having a place in the royal household any more, and if he thought for one single split second that Lancelot had anything but honourable intentions towards his beloved friend he would probably end up scattering bits of the knight over several square miles of country, but as it is ... he cannot be angry with Lancelot for daring to aspire to Gwen, because his eyes are so warm when he sees her, so protective, and Arthur wants that kind of love for Gwen.

'Not really,' Arthur replies, keeping his tone studiedly disinterested. 'I thought to retire early.'

'Oh?' Lancelot says, and his breath is thick with the scent of the boggy whiskey he picked up a taste for in the North. 'With Merlin to attend you, I suppose?' he adds, and there's that joshing tone again.

'With me what?' Merlin says, and Arthur hadn't even noticed he'd wandered up. His manservant's stupidly thin, worn shirt is soaked under the arms and down the front, and Arthur wants to _bite_ the shank of Merlin's collarbone, and dear God. Behind Merlin the fire is lining him in gold, which reminds Arthur of Merlin's magic, still yet to be eased into public view.

'With you nothing,' Arthur says, and stands. 'You've got the night off, remember? It's Beltane,' and Merlin's look of utter utter surprise is _worth_ the knowledge that Arthur's going to have to undress himself tonight and not even have the shameful pleasure of Merlin disrobing him to console him for his lack of revelry. Gwen swings up under Merlin's arm and flashes Lancelot a smile brighter than the sun, and Arthur suddenly wonders if the three of them will indulge Beltane's wilder traditions together, and _that_ picture is enough to make him bid everyone a farewell and head back into the keep, head full of visions of black hair and eyes of blue and brown and smiles, God, they all smile so much, so warmly; Arthur grew up in a household where a smile, a real smile, was a treasure worth absolutely anything, kept back for only the most precious occasions, and these three scatter their largesse around like breadcrumbs, with Arthur feeling like a starving sparrow.

Wonderful. He knew he was a maudlin drunk, but this is beyond the pale. It's Beltane, he ought to be getting licentiously drunk and having hot befuddled fumblings with someone hopefully sensible enough to know how to not get herself pregnant. Well, he doesn't want that, so he's just going to have to make his own entertainment.

The smell of the smoke clings to his hair and isn't entirely shed with his shirt and breeches, and he can smell the mead, the honey, the venison and garlic, on his own breath, so he swills his mouth out with water and settles in bed.

Firelight from outside plays on his walls in dull orange diamonds - he forgot to pull the curtains. That would normally be Merlin's job, anyway. Merlin, stretching up to pull at curtains or to extinguish candles on tall candlesticks, is a familiar evening sight for Arthur, which he watches too closely, and he's imagined this so many times, Merlin then turning around and pulling at the fastenings of his shirt, for Arthur.

 _Come to bed,_ Arthur would say to him, and Merlin would smile, filthy and coy, and demurr. _Oh no, I couldn't. I'll just be going-_ so Arthur would have to go and grab him and wrestle him into some shadow of submission, or at least just into the bed.

Or maybe Merlin would tumble into the bed with Arthur easily, snuggle up like a puppy. Arthur doesn't know what he'd prefer. He gets distracted by these details without really noticing he's taken himself in hand, that he's skipped that whole wonderful time when Merlin would display just how much he knows about Arthur's body, Arthur's reactions, and before he knows what's happened Arthur's pumping furiously into his fist and crying out his manservant's name in choked, hoarse moans, desperate to not be heard even though there must be two feet of stone and at least one empty chamber between him and anyone who might be listening.

The truth is he cannot even begin to imagine what Merlin might be like in bed, he realises as he starts his Beltane night alone. He doesn't know if Merlin has ever been with another man, or with a woman. He doesn't know if Merlin has even been kissed - he doesn't know a thing. For all he knows, Merlin could have been bedding every knight in Camelot behind Arthur's back for the past three years, or every serving-girl, or he could have been courting some squire or some scullery maid devotedly. Or he could have been stuttering and blushing and failing to talk to people he's attracted to. He could be an innocent, he could be a devil in bed. He gives no clues at all, none that Arthur has ever picked up on, and perhaps the mystery is half of it.

Wondering about it gave way to thinking about it gave way to _this_.

And it's then, when Arthur is gasping with his sheets tangled like seafoam around him and his hands working over his skin frantically, that Merlin bangs the door open loudly and calls out Arthur's name. And stops dead in his tracks.

Arthur freezes, and Merlin evidently cops an eyeful of epic proportions before Arthur has the presence of mind to roll over and then to drag his covers hurriedly over himself. Merlin turns on his heel, though, and leaves again without saying a word, and, oh _Hell_.

Probably fortunately from the perspective of propriety and for the sanity of any servants unlucky enough to still be about their duties this late at night, Arthur's arousal has rather diminished, as though hit amidships by a bucket of freezing water, and so he can rush around in his nightshirt with impunity.

He is the King, dammit. If he wants to traipse around his own damn castle in his nightshirt he _can_.

'Merlin! Merlin, where are you-' A hand reaches out and grabs Arthur's wrist. It's suprisingly strong and surprisingly, well, surprising, and he spins around and ends up against the stone wall in a tapestry-hung alcove.

'Go back to bed, you twit,' Merlin says, and he won't meet Arthur's eyes. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- I've had a bit to drink, and I thought- but I'm an idiot, ignore me, honestly. Go back to bed. I'm sorry.'

'Why aren't you out there with Gwen?' Arthur asks, at a loss for what else to say or even why he chased Merlin out here. 'Or Lancelot,' he adds, 'Or both,' and God, it's like he's lost all control of his tongue. Merlin goes scarlet.

'Well,' he says, and waves his hands in a way that somehow manages to convey that they sort of didn't need his help, really. 'And I thought you-' He shuts his eyes. 'Sorry, I wasn't thinking. God, I'm too drunk for this,' and he laughs.

'By which you mean someone with a wineskin walked past you two hours ago and you inhaled at the wrong moment,' Arthur says, somewhat reflexively.

'No, you arse,' Merlin says, rolling his eyes. 'By which I mean Lancelot decided I should be made to drink foreign drinks like whiskey and then follow it up with mead because I looked like I didn't like the taste.'

'In which case I'm amazed you're still standing upright,' Arthur says, feeling a little more sympathetic, because he's had cause to sample that particular beverage and it is a _killer_.

They stand there in slightly awkward silence for a moment before;

'... why aren't you out there?' Merlin asks, quietly

Arthur shrugs. 'Same reason my father never was?' he offers. 'No-one really wants the king out there watching them make asses of themselves. I thought I'd scoot off and let the rest of you have your fun.' He says it as offhandedly and unaffectedly as he can, but Merlin still makes his disbelieving 'Arthur, don't be such a prat' face.

'Would you like some company?' he offers, because despite the fact that he ought to end this uncomfortable corridor audience and escape back to his chambers, he doesn't really want Merlin to go. His manservant is, now, just about the only person in the entire castle he's really comfortable with. 'I thought we could go over the changes to the sorcery laws-'

'Arthur, on _Beltane_?' Merlin asks, slightly incredulously, but he's got that gleam in his eye. Arthur knows full well that those law changes have been in the back, middle and forefront of Merlin's mind for years.

'It's about the only time in the year we'd have any peace and quiet,' Arthur points out. Merlin is clearly thinking the proposition over, and then he shrugs.

'Alright,' he says, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. 'Lead me to it.'

And Arthur does, turning and heading back to his rooms, with Merlin padding quietly beside him, and with night and firelight from outside sliding over every surface, they wander through the castle. It's almost like old times, but without that little frisson of danger Arthur remembers. Or rather, without that enormous brain-melting sense of terror ...

And then Merlin brushes up agains Arthur's side, slyly, in a way that could almost be deliberate, could almost be accidental, and suddenly it's exactly like old times - exhilarating, frustrating, and _bloody confusing_.

***

'No, see, you can't just _allow_ fertility magic like you think no harm can come of it, you twit, _think_ ,' Merlin says, a bit slurrily, which probably isn't a word, but Arthur'd decided that wine might aid discussion. It hasn't really done much but loosen Merlin's already fairly loose tongue. So far he's had about six different insulting names that _aren't_ 'prat', which is probably something he should consider an improvement.

'What,' Arthur says as archly as he can, 'kind of warfare could possibly be fought with _fertility magic_?'

'You have absolutely no imagination,' Merlin says infuriatingly, and refuses to be drawn on the details.

'Well then, how am I supposed to regulate this?' Arthur demands. 'I can't just let people do whatever they like!'

'Spoken like a true king.'

'And what's that supposed to mean?'

Merlin flaps a hand dismissively and takes another mouthful of wine. It has been proven to Arthur over the years that Merlin plays up his drunkenness as much as he can, and he's doing so now. He leans closer. 'Don't think I should be trying to make decisions right now,' he confides.

'Well that's certainly true.'

'Neither should you,' Merlin says, poking Arthur in the chest. It makes Arthur smile. 'C'mon, we've spent hours at this, and it's Beltane night. Should be nearly midnight now,' he adds, peering owlishly out of the window.

'Fancy stirring some embers?' Arthur asks before he realises that could be construed as a proposition. He makes a resolution never to drink around foreign dignitaries, _ever_ , because clearly wine lays hold of his tongue and removes it entirely from his control.

'Why, are you offering?' Merlin says, clearly equally reflexively, and then there they are, blinking at each other in the candlelight and both blushing wine-dark and red. Arthur coughs.

'You've got the night off,' he points out after a decent amount of time has passed. 'You don't have to stay here with me, you can do what you like.'

'I like to stay here with you,' Merlin says, probably more rushed than he meant to. 'I mean-'

'No, it's fine,' Arthur says. 'You're allowed to stay if you want.'

It's just getting worse and worse, as Merlin nods uncomfortably, and they sag back into silence. Merlin gnaws at his lip for a while, then turns to Arthur again, and there's something determined in his face.

'You never answered my question,' he says quietly, and the distance between them seems to telescope in that moment until Arthur is acutely aware of Merlin's body heat next to him, which he swears he wasn't before.

'Question?' Arthur says in a voice just a smidge too high.

Merlin shuffles his chair nearer. 'You offering?'

Which is approximately when Arthur realises that it's _Beltane_ and exactly what is he still just sitting here for?

***

As is usually the case with things, Merlin is somewhere in between the extremes Arthur thought he'd be - he's a wicked fumbler and an enthusiastic kisser and he knees Arthur accidentally rather close to the groin - he's no virgin but he's not exactly experienced either, so roughly analogous to Arthur in that department with one slight difference, which is that he at least appears to have fumbled with another man before, whereas Arthur's own movements have been fairly creative when it comes to women but nothing more than an awful lot of ogling and blessing the fact that the solid metal plates of the fauld hide an awful lot of sins when it comes to men.

Merlin fights Arthur even like this, never can give in even for a second, unlike the maids Arthur's lifted the skirts of.

'Touch me,' Merlin laughs throatily when Arthur displays a little _decorum_ , and then promptly throws his head back and gasps when Arthur does so, and the gold of dying firelight through the window is edging his skin again, making Arthur want something he's never even thought of before.

He grasps Merlin by the hips as he gangles long and lean over Arthur's lap, and rasps, 'Show me some warfare then,' and it takes a moment for Merlin to get it before they're naked and Arthur's up against a bedpost in nothing but a flash of bright eyes.

Merlin spreads a long-fingered hand over Arthur's belly, low and tantalisingly warm, and leans in. Arthur sees the mischief on his face before hot breath stirs the hair curling around Arthur's ear. 'If I wanted to,' he whispers. 'I could make this a real Beltane.' Arthur pushes him away, laughing. 'You don't think that's war?' Merlin asks, smirking. 'To take a strong, virile, _manly_ king, put a child in his belly?' He grinds up against Arthur when he says 'manly'.

'You couldn't,' Arthur says, trying to control his breathing. It's not funny, not even as a joke, not even as an idea, but it's a _point_ and even without that, its beyond attractive, this assurance in Merlin's stance and in his hands and in his eyes.

'I could,' Merlin retorts, pressing the five points of his fingertips into Arthur's skin. 'You have _no idea_ what I can do.'

Arthur can't stop the roil of want in his gut at that little bit of arrogance.

'Show me, then,' he says, and Merlin's eyes are embers and his grin is firelight, and finally, it's properly Beltane.


End file.
